The Wrong Side of the Tracks

 

He was lost. Newark wasn’t where he wanted be. One wrong turn from the highway and it was the wrong side of the tracks: the best place for his car to break down. Shabby houses with no streetlights, weeds littered the yards, and disgusting shoes hung from the powerlines. It was a definite sign of a neighborhood to avoid. So, Brendan had to be quick. He popped the hood, and began tinkering quietly to find the problem. Shockingly, he was terrified to see that the smell of gasoline pungently lingered. Immediately realizing the situation he was in, as he stared at the punctured gas tank, dread set in. It was then that he felt the point of a switchblade against his back.

“Alright, kid. Here’s what’s gonna happen: you’re gonna turn around slowly and face me. Don’t get any stupid ideas.” Brendan did as he was told, and turned to see his harasser. He had a black leather jacket on, with a black tee shirt and cuffed jeans. Big motorcycle boots and a cigar finished off his clearly “bad influence” look. 

“What do you want from me?” Brendan gingerly squeaked, his voice cracking from fear. The greaser grinned, and pointed the switchblade toward an old 1957 Cadillac. Raising his hands behind his head, he got into the pristine car, and sat silently in the backseat. The outside scenery rushed by, completely unrecognizable in the blur of speed. After some incomprehensible amount of time, they came to a halt outside an old Art Deco mansion, along the Hudson Riverfront. The door opened, and he sheepishly exited the car, only to feel an arm come around his neck into a choke hold. The knife now in Brendan’s sight, the greaser dragged him into the house. Brendan’s lungs were filled with the poignant scent of cologne and pit sweat. The indescribable smell blurred his vision, until he ended up on the ground in a pink room, straddled by the greaser.

The awkwardness of the silence was palpable. Brendan watched him sit in the peach coloured chair, smoking the Cuban cigar. He took the cigar out of his mouth, and looked at it, almost as if he was observing it for the first time; as if he were trying to make some sort of decision. Smiling, he grasped the Brendan’s jaw, squeezing until it opened. The greaser took the spit covered stogie and shoved it into Brendan’s mouth. Now inhaling the smoke, Brendan felt strangely calm. With every puff, he became more relaxed and suggestible. The greaser now affectionately stroked his hair, and smiled fondly at him. 

“Just take big deep breaths, kid.” Brendan did as he was told, as if it were his primary function, and inhaled the cigar deep into his lungs. The fog of smoke began to cloud his mind. He didn’t even notice as his hair began to retract back into his skull. Changing from an Irish ginger red to dark Italian black. Little black stubble dotted his chin, and around his jawline. Another inhale, and he felt his pecs swell and become two bulging lumps on his now rippled abdomen. The greaser smirked and let out a small chuckle, as he ran his calloused hand over Brendan’s meaty chest. His legs and arms buckled as lean muscle tore through his blue plaid button up. Brendan was unrecognizable. He looked like a different person, with vaguely familiar features. Yet, he kept inhaling the transformative cigar. The remains of his tattered shirt became thick and smooth, melting together into a shiny leather jacket of his own; while his pants quickly stretched over his newfound muscles into black bootcut jeans, tucked into black engineer boots. The greaser pulled the cigar from Brendan’s mouth, leaving it agape, waiting for more. Instead, he pulled his new brother close and into a wet, sloppy kiss. Their slimy tongues slid over one and other, as Brendan climbed atop the Greaser, sliding his firm ass back and forth on his bulbous bulge. 

–

Parker was driving in the bad side of town, down a seemingly endless street with no lights. A loud pop, and his car skidded to a halt. Upon inspection, he noticed his tire had blown. Little did he know that two men in black leather jackets stood by, leaning on their ‘57 Cadillac, excitedly knowing exactly what was going to happen.